The Shape of Snakes (45 page)

Sam raised his head. "I'm afraid you do," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, "because it won't go away, Libby. Not this time. No one's prepared to support your lies anymore."

She turned to look at him. "I haven't told any, Sam, or not deliberately anyway. You know that ... and so does Jock."

He watched her for a moment. "You primed Jock to tell me Sergeant Drury was getting his leg over in my house. Wasn't that a lie?"

She flicked a triumphant glance in my direction. "Of course it wasn't. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see what was going on. Your trouble is you're so full of guilt yourself, you assume everything this sanctimonious little bitch says must be true. But why should she be any more faithful than you were?"

There was a short silence before my husband answered. I felt his hand creep into mine, and I felt it tremble, but whether from hatred of Libby or hatred of himself I couldn't tell. "She believes in keeping her promises," he said simply. "Unlike you and me, Libby, who broke ours the minute it suited us."

My one-time friend flicked me another glance, this time full of loathing. "You're such a child, Sam," she said scathingly. "Don't you know by now how vindictive she is? She was always going to pay me back for stealing you ... even if it meant accusing me of murder..."
 

Official correspondence with the Metropolitan Police-
dated 1999

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER
METROPOLITAN POLICE
NEW SCOTLAND YARD

Mrs. M. Ranelagh
Leavenham Farm
Leavenham Nr
Dorchester
Dorset DT2 XXY

October 5, 1999

Dear Mrs. Ranelagh,

Re The death of Ann Butts, 30 Graham Road, Richmond-14.11.78

The commissioner has asked me to keep you informed on matters relating to the above. I can now confirm that a full series of interviews has been conducted, with the exception of Mr. Derek Slater, whose present whereabouts are unknown.

I can also confirm that the following charges have resulted from these interviews. Mr. Alan Slater-burglary at 30 Graham Road at or around 02:00 on 15.11.78. Mr. Alan Slater and Mr. Michael Percy-indecent assault and actual bodily harm of Miss Butts at or around 20:30 on 14.11.78. Mrs. Maureen Slater-obtaining money by deception from Smith Alder, Jewelers, Chiswick, between 06.06.79 and 10.11.79. In addition, RSPCA officers are looking at the issue of animal cruelty, although as Miss Butts almost certainly contributed to the cats' distress and deaths by failing to report incidents and/or seek veterinary advice, a prosecution is unlikely.

The commissioner is aware that these charges may fall short of your expectations. However, he asks me to remind you that the burden of proof in criminal cases is an onerous one, which is not made easier with the passage of time. Indeed, the only reason any charges have been brought is because Mr. Alan Slater, Mr. Michael Percy and Mrs. Bridget Percy have cooperated fully with the investigators. No such cooperation has been forthcoming from Mrs. Maureen Slater, Mr. James Drury or Mrs. Libby Garth, all of whom vigorously deny the allegations made against them.

Mr. Drury refutes your allegation that he saw stolen articles in Mrs. Slater's house following Miss Butts's death. He also refutes any suggestion that he accepted a bribe from Mrs. Slater to "turn a blind eye." Without confirmation from Mrs. Slater that these allegations are true, there is no evidence that Mr. Drury was negligent in failing to treat Miss Butts's house as a "scene of crime." Mrs. Slater categorically denies that she ever suggested to you that Mr. Drury had accepted a bribe and further denies any collusion with him, either at the time of the original investigation or more recently.

Mrs. Slater also denies that she had any advance knowledge of the crimes her husband and son committed. She admits being told about the burglary afterward, but claims the articles were taken away by her husband and son and subsequently displayed in Mr. Alan Slater's house where you photographed them. She further denies being the woman who sold the rings in Chiswick. Nor is it likely that Mr. Alan Slater's assertion that it was his mother who "ordered" the burglary will stand up to cross examination as he was adjudged during a trial in 1980 to "be seeking to lay the blame for his worst excesses on his mother." This is a matter of public record, and Mrs. Slater has quoted it several times in her defense during interviews. Investigations continue into how she was able to afford the premises at 32 Graham Road. To date there is no evidence to disprove her statement that she won the money on the football pools as records are regularly destroyed.

Mrs. Libby Garth has been interviewed on a number of occasions and refutes all suggestions of having any involvement in the death of Miss Butts or trying to persecute you through the making of telephone calls to your house, the writing of poison-pen letters and inflicting cruelty on animals. She denies that the various "supportive" conversations she had with you following Miss Butts's death were "fishing expeditions" to discover how much you knew and whether your husband was beginning to waver over his alibi. She further denies any knowledge of the Slaters' harassment of Miss Butts in the months prior to her death, refuting absolutely any allegation that she similarly harassed you in order: 1) to focus your suspicions on the Slaters; and 2) to drive a wedge between you and your husband.

In conclusion, the commissioner has asked me to tell you that the file on the death of Miss Butts remains open, even though, on the evidence to date, it is doubtful that the Crown Prosecution Service will agree to prosecute Mrs. Garth for Miss Butts's murder.

Yours sincerely,
Alisdair Fielding
For: the commissioner, Metropolitan Police
 

LEAVENHAM FARM, LEAVENHAM, NR
DORCHESTER, DORSET DT2 XXY

Alisdair Fielding
The Office of the Commissioner
London Metropolitan Police
New Scotland Yard

October 7, 1999

Dear Alisdair Fielding,

Please inform the commissioner that, not only do the charges mentioned in your letter fall short of my expectations, but 1 had already foreseen three of them when I encouraged Alan Slater and Michael Percy to be honest with the police. Both men were fourteen years old in 1978, therefore any charges now amount to little more than a technicality unless you intend to try them as adults in a juvenile court. The charge against Maureen Slater is equally valueless, as it will depend on the jeweler's identi fication of her after twenty years.

I presume the commissioner is offering these charges by way of a sop to keep me quiet for another few months while his officers continue the pretense of investigating Ann Butts's murder. If so, he has dangerously underestimated my commitment to justice for my friend. I repeat what I wrote at the beginning of the report I submitted in September:
Ann Butts was murdered because a regime of racial hatred and contempt for handicap was allowed to fester unchecked in Graham Road.

I have no intention of letting this rest. Unless you come back to me within a week with more positive news, I will approach the press.

Yours sincerely,
M. Ranelagh

epilogue

It was an unsettled autumn in Dorset with southwesterly winds piling in from the channel and whipping the trees into a frenzied dance around the farmhouse. Sam and I spent days raking the leaves into russet piles, only for them to be blown away again as soon as the wind returned, but it didn't seem to matter. It was so long since we'd enjoyed the glorious turning colors of an English autumn that just being outside brought contentment.

The boys settled into local college life in order to prepare for university the following year. They were older than their contemporaries, particularly Luke, but they preferred the idea of a year's adjustment to diving in at the deep end. Sam and I appreciated it, too. None of us was quite ready to see them go their separate ways when we were still trying to put down roots. I had one or two anxieties as we signed away our fortune to buy the farmhouse. Would the roof blow off before we had time to repair it? Was the wet rot under the floorboards as bad as it looked? But Sam was indomitable and gave us all confidence.

My father took the boys to the highlands of Scotland during the half-term break to give them a taste of the true Ranelagh homeland, and in return Sam and I had my mother to stay. My father's somewhat Machiavellian intention was that we should all get to know each other a little better-and in a way we did-because Mother had a fine old time interfering with Sam's renovation work and telling me how frightful my taste in curtain material was.

It would be an exaggeration to say our relationship improved. The dynamics of competitiveness and mutual criticism had existed too long between us to vanish overnight. I was still a poor wife to Sam, ignoring his coronary, encouraging him to do too much, not cooking his meals on time ... and the boys, though absent, were still too free and easy in their manners and still needed haircuts. As for her ... well ... she would always be a control freak, offering advice that wasn't wanted and dominating everyone while pretending to play the role of martyred slave. But the sparks flew a little less regularly, so perhaps we were making progress.

She had a residual jealousy of Wendy Stanhope, whose visits had been rather more frequent than hers. I introduced them on one occasion but it was a mistake. They were too alike, both of them strong-minded women with decided views, though with little prospect of their minds ever meeting. Wendy admired youth and longed to give it space, while my mother wanted only to corral and discipline it. Wendy would never be so rude as to pass a comment afterward, but Mother, with no such restraints, told me it didn't surprise her at all that the silly woman had the habit of screaming from clifftops.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because she was unable to make friends with her own age group," was the barbed answer.

One of the reasons for Wendy's frequent trips was to visit Michael in prison and drive on to Bournemouth to see Bridget. Wendy and I made the round journey together the first time, but on subsequent occasions she went alone. In between whiles I visited Michael myself. I asked him once if he thought Wendy still wanted to adopt him. He grinned and said she only ever gave him lectures these days because she'd transferred her affections to Bridget and was acting like his mother-in-law. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Good, he told me. It would be harder to let his wife down in the future if he had a fire-breathing dragon on his back. He added somewhat wistfully that it was a pity Mrs. S. hadn't taken that tack before. And, by implication, me too.

For myself, I wondered why my more intelligent pupil had to struggle with the concept of good behavior being its own reward, while Alan, the Neanderthal, had put it into practice and accepted it. In the end I accepted Sam's analysis-a strong-minded woman is a man's best friend.

I had an angry letter from Beth Slater midway through September in response to one from me, which had set out to explain how committed I was to Annie's cause and why it was necessary to involve Alan. But she couldn't be persuaded, and her anger saddened me. She hated people who pretended one thing and did another. She hated the police, who had stripped their house of everything, even the things Alan could prove he'd bought himself. She hated Derek, who was a bastard, and Maureen, who was a bitch. And was it surprising Alan had gone off the rails when he had been so abused as a child? But nothing could excuse what I had done. Did I not realize that by destroying Alan I'd destroyed Danny as well? She ended by saying she never wanted to hear from me again. However, I remained optimistic because I'd learned a great deal about the healing powers of time-and I was sure she knew how much I admired her.

To my relief, Danny turned up like a bad penny toward the end of October. He had a filthy hangover. He was irritable and tetchy, and laid down rules and regulations about his private space and what he was allowed to do in it. "Like what?" asked Sam.

"Chill out ... smoke a joint now and then..." He needed peace and quiet to get his head straight, and we owed him that much for setting his family at each other's throats.

Sam, equally relieved, backed him against a wall. "What about my wife's head?" he demanded. Didn't his family owe me something for what his father and brother had done to me? Danny was scornful. How could the Slaters compensate his missus? What did they have that she wanted? Hell, she was in a different league. That's why he'd come. He reckoned she could teach him a thing or two ... about internalized pain ... and how he could use it to exploit his genius.

Sheila Arnold and I remained friends, but at a distance. We greeted each other warmly when we met in the street but recognized we had little in common. In the end I preferred the anarchy of clifftop screaming to the elegant conformity of matching panama hats. She agreed grudgingly to allow me to use parts of her correspondence in press releases, but insisted that I make it clear she was unavailable for interviews. "Larry would never approve," she said.

Jock arrived for a long weekend in November and helped us re-felt and re-tile the western end of the roof above the attic. He and I did most of the heaving of materials while Sam straddled the gable and shouted orders. Then, come the evenings, we dropped into armchairs and threw cushions at Sam until he agreed to pour us enormous glasses of wine and make our supper. I came to wonder why I had ever disliked Jock, and what had persuaded me that Sam might choose his friends unwisely.

Jock disappeared into the barn every so often to share spliffs with Danny and give him the benefit of his wisdom on money and women but, fortunately, most of it went in one ear and out the other. More sensibly, he bought the first, and rather fine, sculpture that Danny carved at Leavenham Farm. It was a folded figure of a woman with her head resting on her knees, entitled
Contemplation
, and was a huge leap forward from the
Gandhi
on my terrace. But I wouldn't have swapped
Gandhi
for the world.